Pffft. I could do that. Except for the blindfold. I couldn’t manage that. And I’d need to hyperventilate a bit, so I couldn’t wear the mask, either. And I’d probably get distracted by the slight rustle of air passing over the piece of paper the girl was holding to make sure I wasn’t cheating. And the camera would make me nervous, I think, so that would have to go. And what’s with the timer? I don’t need that kind of pressure. And then I’d have to solve the Rubik’s cube, which is pretty hard, I’m told. I’ve been meaning to try it, but I have to get all the shapes in the right holes in that other game from Fisher-Price. When I solve that one, look out Rubik.
Sixteen-bit music makes everything better. You could have the soundtrack for this video playing at a funeral and it would make it into a party. Not that funerals aren’t already parties. I only attend funerals of people I don’t like. My wife wears a low-cut red mini dress, and I bring noisemakers and confetti. If you’re not the life of the funeral, you’re doing it wrong.
I don’t know about you guys, but I’m going to use a 16-bit soundtrack to liven up all of my otherwise boring daily activities. I’ll have a soundtrack for when I chase down and assault the joggers who go by my house. For when the mailman finds the surprise I left him in the mailbox. In the unlikely event that I find a job, I’ll have a great soundtrack for shredding important documents and disrupting meetings with roundhouse kicks to the dork at the whiteboard.
I’m pretty good at it, too. I practiced and everything, and entered a contest. It was all official-like, and everyone wore suits and vests and combed their hair and shined their shoes. The pool table was the size of my front yard. It was clean as a whistle, too, and fairly flat. I’m not used to that.
I’ll be the first to admit that I’m just a little bit jealous of that fellow’s mad math skills. I was never good at solving mental equations and I’ve only gotten worse over time. Now that I think of it, I don’t know if I even have a basic grasp of mathematics anymore.
People make the mistake of assuming that I’m a complete poindexter because I wear soda-bottle glasses and dress like your senile dad, but I’m am as thick as granite and I have the test scores to prove it. I wear big glasses because I’m blind, so kind of need them to see, and I dress like your dad because I’m so frightfully unhip that I’ve come full circle and hipsters worship my fashion advice. I started off as a jock who was too cool for sports, lost my vision around middle-school, and I’ve been an accidental hipster icon ever since.
I’m not blind because I’ve spent many hours immersed in books that have dulled my vision, or because I spend my days programming super-software to hack into foreign banks, or whatever. My dad doesn’t have very good vision, and neither does my mom, so I’m stuck like this. Now you try explaining that to people who assume you’re a genius because you wear glasses the size of a Palomar lens. Try telling them you’re secretly a mouth-breather. It’s a lot harder than it sounds. At this point I’ve gotten so sick and tired of explaining that I’m not very smart to people that I’ve completely given up. Now I just pretend, which is essentially the same as actually being smart.
In my heart I know I’m not that bright, which has brought me solace and a sense of relief, because I couldn’t live with myself knowing I was a massive NERD.